Tag: relationships

For the longest time Joey was the elusive ideal. Joey was sthe one ex that all potential suitors were measured against. In attempting to write down our first encounter I came to the realization that there was nothing epic, template worthy, about the encounter. There was nothing grandiose or particularly outstanding about the relationship’s arc. In fact, the mental glorification of that relationship and its beginning is rather obsessive.

I met Joey just as I was turning 20 years old. It had been New Year’s Eve, at club Tilt, during the celebratory drag show. I felt the back of my ear get flicked. I turned around, “Hi.”

Joey explained he was following an impulse and immediately knew the type of person I was dealing with.

“Alright.” And turned back around.

Joey got my attention again by asking if wanted to roll.

“Okay,” I answered.

While we dated, I believed I was not complex enough for him because all that he was appeared brave and loud. Two things that I was not. I was scared the whole time that he’d find out that beneath the image I had designed wasn’t someone worthy. I feared his rejection, and so created chaos to deflect from being a cypher. I covered up my exuberance, believing that a demeanor of cold detachment decision making would be impressive, because in my fantasy of you I saw strong and decisive; weighed down by another’s gushing emotion; a man that saw devotion as a flaw. Instead I became frigid and distracted with constant repair on my ice-walls. I never learned to thaw for those I care about.

We broke up in 2011 on a Sunday in mid-January. Thank you for being polite until after my birthday, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. We hadn’t seen one another the previous night – I had worked late, so was all puppy-dog tails to see him. When I arrived, I was greeted by a friend of his unceremoniously handing me my things. I was numb; I needed to understand, so putting my belongings down took out my phone. Joey’s response was a generic text stating the official dissolution.

I should have predicted the break-up because of the distance for three-and-a-quarter-months. I persisted by being better at playing house as a new year’s resolution, but it was all too little, too late, and now suspiciously out of character. His apprehensive glances telegraphed the to end our relationship.

Years later, when I looked backed on the relationship I know I wasn’t particularly happy. When I recall the relationship with Joey, what comes to mind is his habit of telling him something, then he vehemently disagrees. These weren’t ideological differences, or rooted in arcane knowledge. Rather, disagreements came over individual rights and basic operations of politics and humanism. We’d part in the morning for our separate work, and then return to each other that evening with Joey’s mind changed. This change of mind arose because he had talked to his co-workers, who told him that he was in the wrong; that I was correct. That was the routine of our relationship: Joey respected only his friends and their opinions, and not mine. The chaos that I had sewn had seeped into every aspect of our relationship, leaving Joey unable to have faith that I’d be saying the truth, or respect my stance as having validity.

For the longest time Joey as the elusive ideal cast a long specter over everyone that came into my life. He was the one ex that all potential suitors were measured against. Physically, Joey was wondrous. He was tall with broad shoulders. A great chest; a nice set of strong thick legs; beautiful chest hair. Joey had kissable lips. I loved his devilish cackle of a laugh, and the glint in his eye. Joey was never the emotionally warmest person, in my recollections, but I never found it a problem. He did share though, he talked about his day and how events affected him. Joey brought a person in. I never felt alone with him. I was always an embarrassed 13-year-old around him.

Conversely, Joey looked good on paper, but fed the deepest insecurity about being valued. Joey had the habit of vehemently disagreeing with something I had said, which could’ve been an explanation or clarification of a fact. These were not exactly ideological differences. We’d part for work, and then return to each other that evening. As we discussed our day Joey would drop comments synthesizing his morning’s statement with what I had said. This change of mind arose because Joey had talked with his co-workers, who had informed him of why I was correct. That was the typical routine of a typical disagreement. Over time, I began asking myself, Why does Joey never just have faith that I’d know something or be correct, or respect that my stance has validity? Joey respected only his friends and their opinions, and not mine.

Writing is a pure reaction to the world that produces something, new to create and build upon. Fiction, essays, and articles bring currents to depths, re-contextualizing the world and experiences. Writing affects the physical world, re-conceptualizing experiences.

The writing process involves searching to a root of what I would enhance or disagree with in life. Writing allows me to edit and revise the world or myself into agreeably unique. What is put down on paper – fiction or non-fiction – is the distilment of that act. It is the statement of the me that cannot tap down.

Essay writing grants me the opportunity to talk about the world, and its effects. Essays require stories from the writer’s life to provide wisdom for the reader. The level of introspection on my past affords me occasion to forge new-ness, spurred by the peace brought from new perspectives on experiences. Essay writing crystalizes life events into formative moments to create a sound foundation to move forward. Sharing personal moments – connecting through failures, cultural touchstones, milestones, etc – that enlarge and unite everyone’s humanity provides foundation to deep relationships with friends and family. Celebrating humanity as foundation analyzes to create an increased quality of life.

As Joey and my correspondence broke down my romantic life became a deconstructed romantic-comedy. Joey’s friend Ben swooped in and began talking to me. we hung out and did dugs. By the end of Spring Break, we were dating and by summer we were boyfriends. Around Thanksgiving Ben wrote an email to my parents, telling them I was homosexual, and that he was in love with me. I found out because my mother forwarded me the email. I was destroyed. I was humiliated. Ben’s letter is a moment I have been internally living down.

I do not know why I continued to date Ben, and then drop out of college for him. Ben was my first boyfriend.

One-night Ben had admitted that the only reason he had spoken to me was because he had a crush on Joey, and wanted to investigate who I was (what was appealing about me). Ben had wanted me distracted so Joey would lose interest. Then, he says, he began to like me and fall in love with me. We were together for three years.

The relationship immediately after Ben was with Frank Maha. I had met Frank through Ben, who was buying drugs from Frank. In truth, Ben was cheating with Frank. Later, Frank admitted to me that the reason for sleeping with Ben was so to break Ben and I up, so he could date me.

For such a long-time Joey cast a constant shadow over my decisions and actions. My life was in a holding pattern as I hoped he’d come back in.

Joey seemed to be the first same-age guy that showed an interest in me. Prior to Joey, guys my age said was too geeky, too short, too thin, not thin enough, not gay enough.

Joey liked all those things about me. He was sweet to me. He was kind to me. College’s manic pixie boy façade had paid-off.

In my memory, he was the perfect straight-laced rebel. Edgy enough to be interesting, and clean enough to bring home.

That New Year’s Eve, through Joey and his friends, I was fully introduced to seedy and drug-fueled as normal. I was introduced to the concept of frenemies by how Joey and his circle behaved toward one another. A world where my façade got me accepted in and insulated me from; my silence and listening-skills gave the illusion of emotional investment. In truth, my carefully designed masks had kept me the constant observe of life and not the actor, leaving me ill-equipped for ethnography. I began seeing the catty duplicitous behavior and normalized it. I gave myself permission to replicate their naughty behavior.

Eventually, I went back to school and Joey and my correspondence petered out, as he was always too busy to answer a phone. As I waited for Joey to re-enter my life, I created disruption in my relationships, making myself always available but never alone.

The winter break of my 20th birthday I met Joey Antinore. It had been New Year’s Eve, at club Tilt. I had been standing watching the drag show when I felt the back of my ear get flicked. I turned around and said, “Hi.”

Joey explained he was following an impulse and immediately knew the type of person I was dealing with.

“Alright.” And turned back around.

Joey got my attention again by asking if wanted to roll.

“Okay,” I answered.

For the longest time Joey Antinore was the elusive ideal; the one ex that all potential suitors were measured against. In attempting to write down our first encounter I came to the realization that there was nothing epic, template worthy, about the encounter. There was nothing grandiose or particularly outstanding about the relationship’s arc. In fact, the mental glorification of that relationship and its beginning is rather obsessive.

What was it about the whole scenario that became #goals? I wasn’t particularly happy. When I recall the relationship with Joey, what comes to mind is his habit of telling him something, then he vehemently disagrees. These weren’t ideological differences, or rooted in arcane knowledge. Rather, disagreements came over individual rights and basic operations of politics and humanism. We’d part in the morning for our separate work, and then return to each other that evening with Joey’s mind changed. This change of mind arose because he had talked to his co-workers, who told him that he was in the wrong; that I was correct. That was the routine of our relationship: Joey respected only his friends and their opinions, and not mine. I never fully understood how and why Joey could never just have faith that I’d know something, or respect my stance as having validity.

Moving is a stressful time for anyone, especially nesters like myself. I’ve been in the same apartment for seven years. I am a person that enjoys having roots and growth. The instability of my youth has deepened my desire to have a home, to abandon gypsy life.

The new apartment is in the same building but I’m moving without any assistance. I have friends that say they will help, though so far, after the first day, they have not arrived to help; or had to cancel at the last minute to stay at work. This is acceptable to me because I can move most of the small boxes and furniture on my own, but I do hope that friends are able to come through with their aide on the weekend, when I need to move the heavy furniture.

Friendships have always come difficultly for me. I do not know why. I have always envisioned myself as a nice person. Conversely, I have been horrible I relationships. My boyfriends were always good boyfriends, but they weren’t good boyfriends for me. Being in relationships required greater socialization than I can handle in any given moment. I would rather be home – writing, drawing, cooking – than to be out in the community. My home is a cocoon to rest and recharge. It is a place where I can fix-up and modify the next day’s necessary identity. The nomadic and public life is draining, removing the necessary recuperation period.

Being homosexual has consistently been present in my life, beginning when I was 9 years old when AIDS entered my consciousness, putting a dark stigma became attached to being homosexual. The original facts I had about homosexuality came to me through knowledge about AIDS, gleamed from the deaths of Anthony Perkins and Robert Reed, effectively connecting homosexuality with death, separation, and sensationalism. With limited exposure to healthy examples of homosexuality I stumbled into a stagnate malleable inauthentic identity, designed for avoidance.

As I grew up I struggled with the idea that there was something false and untrue about my place in the world. In reaction, I created a false self that wasn’t defective or flawed. I diluted or ignored parts of myself that I thought would alienate me from those around me. When a false-self was created I ceased to be an authentic human being. The psychologist, the late Alice Miller calls this “soul-murder” – shame that leads to believing that I was a failure. Self-contempt, isolation, and a strong sense that I was untrustworthy accompanied each other until I believed I was a failure. Shame became my core identity, shutting me down to human relationships, living in hopelessness, and locked in a set of very unhealthy beliefs. Continue reading “Identity in Separate Baubles”→

Chronic shame developed from the best of intentions of my parents when raising two children. They were good at it, striving to create balance for two radically different kids – providing food, shelter, and safety, but I still felt neglected if the parents do not bond emotionally with me. I have few memories of being held, comforted, played with, or asked how I was doing; plenty questions about the events of a school-day, but not their impact. When they didn’t live up to expectations they privately, and I’m sure to this day, scolded themselves; they failed less times than they believe they did. My parents instilled in me the three F’s – family, food, and fun. If there were two then the third would be automatically follow suit; should food be part of the family gathering then we’d have some fun; if there was food and fun, then one must be amongst family.

Most of their concern was aimed at my sister and her uncontrollable outbursts. My sister’s (then undiagnosed bipolar) behavior drew my parents’ attention, exhausting them, resulting in an often-chaotic home life. The chaos she created taught me that disruptions to a plan lead to eruptions of an77ger and violence. I blamed myself for that distress, believing I was the reason I was left alone. I sought safety and closeness from their parent — yet my parents could not be close or safe. All I could feel was “unlovable,” creating the seed of shame. The feelings of my parents, whether expressly communicated or sensed by a child, become internalized and automatic. The state of being alone and powerless became pervasive.

I felt shame for being abnormal or wrong. During childhood, I leaned into my better ability to gloss-over my bad behavior, or just being generally more agreeable, to be the “good child.” This also meant not being seen, in comparison to the spectacle that was my sister. My parents did what they could at the time, so I created a compliant personality designed to make life far simpler; I didn’t want to be the reason for everything or have the spotlight on me. This allowed me to get attention when my parents sought respite from my sister. I became incapable of trusting my own emotions, so was unable to use them as a compass for living. There was no developed skill to ground myself in the present, and being in the moment and staying observant without judgment of my own emotions.

My not being seen combined with its created a spiral of neglect and ignored are bound with being loved. Compliance allowed me to go unseen, my homosexuality never being addressed. This self-imposed inability to say aloud that I was gay. I had seen modelled on TV even how the most progressive of parents reacted, which was with tears of worry. I was not going to add more concerns to their already full plate. I vowed to not be the straw that broke any one’s back.

I learned early that existence was being in a state of constant heartbreak. The gay domesticity templates of Jodie Dallas, Ellen, and other early homosexual representation demonstrated that life would never consist of a cozy weekend bubble with another, only the longing for one. While Jodie Dallas was perpetually single, Ellen DeGeneres’ presentation of homosexual relationship was full of drama and bickering. These examples of playing-house were a lacking perfect reflection of what I wanted, which was the bittersweet rom-com of When Harry Met Sally, or How to Marry a Millionaire; and later 13 Going on 30, What’s Your Number, Sex & the City.

In the past, I sunk under the weight of pursing others like a puppy only to not be selected. The superficiality of idolized physicality in homosexuality was not me. Perfect was the Abercrombie & Fitch model or Justin Timberlake; the pop-idol and the porn star got all the attention. Not me, the queerly geek whose authenticity – the interests, experiences, and beliefs – existed on the peripheral of popular. How could they not see how cool I was? Continue reading “GWM ISO James Corden-Type”→